July 16, 2004

At least my poetry is better than Dubya's

Yes, I know. Poetry sucks
Caveat: If you do not exit your browser immediately, you will get free-form poetry. Consider yourself warned.

Apology, Excepted

I’m sorry I couldn’t wait to jump in the river
Clothes and all
And had to borrow some of yours
That you so graciously lent to me
I was too self-conscious to strip down in front of you
My boxers show more than I’d care to say
And that's saying something.

I’m sorry I sought solace in your vintage tshirt
(You always knew how I felt about Mighty Mouse)
Freeballing in your levi’s
Low rise
Button-fly jeans
The pair with the blue paint on the thigh
With the slight tear on the right pant leg

I’m sorry I enjoyed it so much
Wallowing in your washed out cologne
Feeling so much stronger as your doppelganger
Than as your audible quotation marks “friend”
At least at the time

I’m sorry that my hair, still wet from the river
Dripped onto your carpet
Forming an H20 halo
Leaving some sort of resonance of me
Tainting your aura with my sweat

I’m sorry that I reached into the back pocket
On a loose scrap of paper I found my phone number
Slightly faded and blurred but still there
(I’ll skip the obvious comparison between me and the scrap of paper)
But I think you get the point anyway

I’m sorry I had to change in your bedroom
Be naked in the one room that’s wholly for you
Let the nervous vibes of my raw flesh infiltrate the air
So that next time you take off your shirt you feel violated
I used to be naked here
And I might see it as an invitation for more
(Even though you were very clear at what we could do without guilt)
My ugly, hairy legs were exposed in the exact position your finely framed thighs meet your pants
Betwixt your boxers and the bedsheets

I’m sorry I saw your room at all
That I locked myself in with your childhood fantasies
The room you undressed your first GI Joe
Your first night without a night light
Your first jacking off
That I had the opportunity to rifle through your stuff
I could have sniffed the dirty jock on your floor
I could have spilled your cologne
I could have found your diary
I could have spat on your retainer
I could have ripped up the porno mags hidden under your bed

But I didn’t

I’m sorry I didn’t investigate your bookcase
Re-sort the books aestically instead of alphabetically
I could have seen the Joys of Gay Sex sandwiched between James Joyce and Erica Jung
In a different book jacket, of course

I’m sorry that even after my clothes had dried
And after I had changed
(In the bathroom this time)
That your ‘girlfriend’ remarked how I still smelled of you
I could see the disgust in your face as she said that
But I have to admit the virile smell was a welcome reminder
Since I was no longer swaddled in your shirt

I’m sorry that I left soon after that
To your feign of disapproval and your clandestine wink
But I couldn’t take any more of the hot slash cold
And you know what?
While I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes
I know what it’s like to be in your clothes
And I think you made a bad decision
You took the easy route
The take her home to grandma for thanksgiving route
And I’m not here to be sad hearted
And to constantly monitor my affection
I’m here to return your oversized sweater
That I took cos I was still cold
So just take it back
Take it like a man
And call me when you’re done
Cos I know I am
I have three problems with this poem.
1. The title (Apology, Excepted) is stupid.
2. Free-form poetry is inherently stupid.
3. The ending loses focus and is stupid.

For those of you with thick stomachs (or are just thick) and have actually read the poem, feel free to leave a comment with any suggestions on how to fix any one of these problems, or any others you may have.

Or you can just leave a comment saying how cool I am. I'm surprisingly insecure.

Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.